Bob was accustomed to rowing, but navigation with the ferry-boat presented a new and interesting problem which he was eager to solve. A steering apparatus had been rigged up at the stern, which was found strong enough for the purpose required. Bob took his place at the helm in starting, and managed for the first hour to regulate the direction of his craft. By that time they came to a place where the creek widened considerably, and the boat showed a disposition to whirl round in an eddy. This difficulty, however, was overcome by practice, and Bob began to acquire confidence in himself as a navigator. But it was evident that he could not remain at the helm all day.

"Come here, Clip," he said; "I want you to rest me in steering."

Clip took his place, but his first attempts proved discouraging. He was inclined to steer in just the reverse direction, and twice came near running the boat ashore.

"What are you about, Clip?" demanded Bob, in excitement. "Don't you see you are running the boat ashore?"

"I done just like you, Massa Bob," protested Clip. "De boat acts contrary; never see such an ol' boat."

"It is you that are contrary, Clip. You don't do as I tell you."

"I 'clar to gracious I did, Massa Bob. I can't never learn to steer."

In fact, Clip, who was naturally lazy, found it very irksome to stand at the helm, and much preferred going here and there on the boat and surveying the scenery on either bank. He hoped that his incompetence would save him from the task. But his dream was rudely disturbed.

"If you can't take your turn in steering, Clip," said Bob, "you won't be of any use to me. I shall have to send you home, and get along with Sam's assistance."

"Oh, don't send me home, Massa Bob!" exclaimed Clip, in alarm. "I'll try—'deed I will."

"I'll try you a little longer, Clip," said Bob; "but you must not blame me for sending you back, if it is necessary."

No better argument could have been used to insure satisfactory work from Clip, who was naturally careless, and inclined to shirk work. Nevertheless, Bob felt glad that he had another assistant in Sam Wolverton, who proved to possess all the qualities which Clip lacked.

When it was one o'clock, Clip began to show signs of distress.

"I'm pow'ful hungry, Massa Bob," he said, in a pleading tone.

"So am I, Clip," returned Bob, with a smile. "I will see if I can't do something to relieve you."

He had brought from home a basket of sandwiches and a gallon of milk. To these the boys did ample justice, displaying even more appetite than usual. This was not surprising, for they had worked hard, and this in the open air.

"Sam," said Bob, "I can't hope to supply you with all the delicacies you would get at home, but I hope you'll make it do with our humble fare."

Sam smiled.

"All the delicacies on Uncle Aaron's table wouldn't spoil anybody's digestion. I like my dinner to-day better than any I've eaten for a long time. I don't know what uncle and aunt would say if they could see me here."

"De ol' man would be wild," said Clip, with a guffaw.

"I expect he would, Clip. He isn't fond of me, but he doesn't want to lose me. He will have to do his own chores now, for I don't believe he can get a boy to work for him."

About six o'clock in the afternoon, having arrived opposite a town which I will call Rushford, Bob decided to tie up for the night. He and Clip went on shore, leaving Sam in charge of the boat. He did not dare to leave it unguarded, for the cargo, according to his estimate, was worth not far from three thousand dollars.

He took the opportunity to enter a restaurant, where he bought Clip and himself cups of coffee, and ordered a fresh supply of sandwiches made up, which he arranged to have delivered at the boat early the next morning.

"I don't mean that we shall starve, Clip," he said.

Clip showed his teeth.

"Dat coffee's awful good, Massa Bob," he said.

"Yes, but we can't make it on board the boat. I shall have to depend on getting it at the villages on the way."

"How far are we from home, Massa Bob?"

"Well thought of, Clip. I will inquire."

He asked the keeper of the restaurant the distance to Carver.

"I don't know, but I think my waiter comes from that neighborhood. Sam, how far away is Carver?"

"Forty miles," answered Sam promptly.

"I thought it had been more. We have been eight hours coming on the river."

That is because the river (they had left the creek fifteen miles up) was winding in its course.

On the whole, however, Bob decided that it was very fair progress for the first day, and that only about two-thirds of the time.

Rushford was a town of fifteen hundred inhabitants, and presented as busy an appearance as a town three times the size in the East. Clip, who was fond of variety, was reluctant to return to the boat, but Bob said:

"We must relieve Sam, and give him a chance to come ashore and get some coffee. You come with him, and show him the restaurant."

This arrangement suited Clip, who liked as much variety and excitement as possible.

On returning to the boat Bob was somewhat surprised to find his young lieutenant in conversation with an old lady dressed in antediluvian costume. She had a sharp face, with an eager, birdlike look, and seemed to be preferring a request.

"Here's the captain; you can ask him," said Sam, who seemed much relieved by the return of Bob.

"Is he the captain?" asked the old lady. "Why, he's nothin' but a boy!"

"He's all the captain we have," answered Sam.

"Be you in charge of this boat?" asked the old lady.

"Yes, ma'am. What can I do for you?"

"I want to go down to St. Louis," said the old lady, "and I thought maybe you might find room for me."

"But, ma'am, why don't you take passage on a river steamer?"

"They charge too much," said the old lady. "I hain't got much money, and I s'pose you wouldn't charge me much. Are you any acquainted in St. Louis?"

"No, ma'am."

"I thought maybe you might know my darter's husband. He keeps a grocery store down near the river. His name is Jeremiah Pratt, and my darter's name is Melinda Ann. I want to give 'em a surprise."

"I never met the gentleman."

"When do you start?"

"To-morrow morning about half-past seven o'clock."

"Can't you put it off till eight? I've got to pack my trunk over night, and I've got to eat a bit of breakfast to stay my stummik. How much do you charge? I'd be willing to pay you seventy-five cents."

"How much do the steamboats charge?" asked Bob.

"I think it's six dollars, or it may be seven. That's too much for a poor woman like me."

"I think you will have to pay it, madam, for we have no accommodation for passengers on our boat."

"Oh, I ain't a mite particular. You can put me anywhere."

"I suppose you wouldn't be willing to get into a grain bin?"

"Oh, now you're jokin'. Where do you sleep yourself?"

"On a mattress on the floor; that wouldn't be suitable for a lady like you. Besides, we have no separate rooms."

"Then you can't take me, no way?" asked the old lady, disappointed.

"I am afraid not, madam."

"You're real disobligin'. I don't see how I am to get to St. Louis."

"I am sorry I can't help you."

The old woman hobbled off in evident anger. Bob heard afterwards that she was a woman of ample means, fully able to afford steamboat fare, but so miserly that she grudged paying it.

"Now, Sam," said Bob, "Clip will show you the way to a restaurant where you can get a hot cup of coffee and a plate of meat, if you desire it."

While the boys were gone, Bob received a visitor.